Letters

Do you ever get tired of speaking? I am so tired of speaking, I want to pretend I’m mute so I don’t have to talk anymore. I would rather write letters to everyone, like the main character does for a little while in How the Light Gets In by M.J. Hyland. I’m able to say so much more through writing.

I’ve had a rough week. I was attempting to explain my fear of food to my nutritionist and I couldn’t form the right words. I feel like such a stupid idiot when I try to talk to her. I would rather write it out in a letter to her instead:

Dear Nutritionist,

Sometimes, when I’m sitting across from you in your office and watching as you try to manage your frustration with me, I wish you would just scream that you hate me and kick me out of your building. I would prefer that kind of unabashed, blunt honesty to your passive aggressive body language of sitting with your legs crossed tight, one arm pulled firmly across your stomach while the other is planted on your knee, your fingers picking imaginary lint from your pants before flicking the invisible bits in my direction. I don’t think you realize you do this, but you do this.

I’m trying to explain to you why I’m afraid of food. Why I’m scared of the carbs in potatoes, but not the carbs in wheat bread. Why I’m terrified of the fat in cheese, but not the fat in milk or yogurt. Why I’m afraid of eating lunch, but not afraid of dinner. Your lips are pursed and you ask me if logic ever plays a part in my decision making. And then you explain, very slowly and for the umpteenth time, that my body needs fuel and that fats aren’t fattening. I want to tell you that I’m aware of this, that I know my fear of food is unfounded and this is all in my head, but it doesn’t make my fear any less real and it doesn’t make my anxiety go away.

I’m afraid and I don’t know how to put my fear into words. I try to make my mouth form the explanations, but as usual, I mess everything up and my sentences sound like incoherent garbles plopping out of my mouth, cluttering up your tidy office with illogical nonsense. I mess everything up. My mind is always in disarray, and my feelings about food are all tangled up with fear and dread and panic. I don’t know, for example, how to explain that when I feel full from eating it makes me feel like I’m suffocating, like I’m trapped.

It’s the same feeling I used to get when I was in Junior High School, when all of these problems with food first started to surface. It was a very rough school. Our building was next to a huge dilapidated graveyard which served as a resting place for pioneers who died in the 1800’s. There were large metal fences lined with barbed wire that separated the student body from the multitude of decrepit tombstones jutting out from the ground like broken, crooked teeth; a mess of crumbling grave markers surrounded by overgrown weeds and dying grass. Everywhere I looked, there were fences armed with that sharp barbed wire and it felt like we were stuck in some sort of a prison.

It was a rough school. Major fights broke out every week, usually around our lunch period. I’d often get stuck in the huge crowds that would suddenly form out of nowhere, as everyone moved in fast to surround whoever was brawling that week. I would be trapped in the swarm, unable to move, unable to get away until the security guards would break through the mass of people and stop the fight. Do you know what that’s like? Do you know what it’s like to have to see someone get punched in the face until their nose breaks? Do you know what it’s like to be trapped motionless in a mob of people who are shouting and yelling, and you can’t break free? Do you know what it’s like to be unable to move, to be frozen in place and have to watch as someone falls backwards and cracks their head open on a doorknob? To watch the cops drop to their knees and try to help someone who is seizing in a puddle of blood on the floor?

I know what that’s like. I had to see it all the time. And it usually happened at lunch. It was a very rough school. That’s when my appetite started to disappear. That’s when my stomach started twisting into tight knots and eating became painful and I found that I could no longer handle the food at lunch. That’s when I started to associate feeling full with feeling trapped and paralyzed. That’s when my fear replaced my logic. I wanted to disappear. I was always afraid and I could not manage my fear. But I could manage what I ate, and it made me feel better to have some sort of control over something.

Does logic ever play a part in your decisions?

I’m just afraid. And I know it’s not logical, but the fear is still with me and it is still very real. I want to explain this. But even if I could, I know my explanation would not suffice. All of this happened years and years ago. I should be over my fear by now. It isn’t logical. But I am still afraid. And I am very, very sad.

I understand your frustration with me. I’m frustrated with me too. I don’t like having to be in my head anymore than you do. But you just have to be in here for an hour, and I never get to leave. I’m stuck here trying to make sense out of all of this, sifting through these broken pieces. I’m trapped. And the fear is always here.

I promise you, though, that I’m trying really hard to break free. I’m just stuck in the swarm right now and it’s hard to move. I am exhausted. But I’m trying. I am afraid. But I’m trying. I promise.

Sincerely,
Nicole


Lots of love to all of you <3